


Headcanons, NSFW

by solitaryjane



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, BDSM, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Headcanon, M/M, Mission Related, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2020-12-16 11:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21035843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjane/pseuds/solitaryjane
Summary: A series of unrelated NSFW headcanons. Here be smut, yo! And sometimes not the very nice kind. Mostly focused on 00Q.





	1. Work

Bond rarely lets himself go when he comes. Occupational hazard; he never knows if his current bedmate has hidden a knife somewhere just waiting for the right moment to stab it into his neck. Worse when they’re in a non-neutral location, like the target’s home instead of his own vetted hotel suite. He does develop various strategies to cope, however. If he’s with a woman he’ll try to come the same time she does. It can be tricky, because women can fake their orgasms quite convincingly, but most of the time he can tell when it’s genuine. That way she’ll hopefully be too caught up in the moment to properly ambush him. It’ll at least buys him a few precious seconds, which can literally be the difference between life and death.

With men it’s easier in that half the time they don’t even have penetrative sex. The amount of information he can pry out of a man from a well execute blowjob is frankly staggering. It doesn’t mean it’s not tricky in its own way. Sometimes the guy gets too aggressive, and he can’t very well fight back without jeopardizing his own intent. So he does the opposite and becomes pliant. Let them underestimate his strength and hope they won’t try to knock him around too much before he gets what he needs. He likes to do it from the back if he gets the choice, because that means he can control the mark’s hands, disguised as passion, and it makes actually coming a bit safer.

Occasionally he encounters those who try to honeypot _him_ instead. Usually when he’s posing as someone high enough on the chain for the target to either get on the good side of or to steal information from. Then comes the thin, wisp of a thing with doe eyes and wild hair and pouty pink lips. They exude sex when they walk whether in a cocktail dresses or skin-tight pants, a lot barely out of their teens. He has a hard-drawn line against sleeping with someone underage, and sticks to it. It’s why M doesn’t send him to infiltrate human trafficking rings except for pure raiding purposes. There are better jobs suited for someone like Bond, and M is if anything pragmatic. The psych reports afterwards are a lot less messy this way. 

What this does mean, though, is that these are the perfect setup for him to actually have sex like normal people do. Especially if it’s a young man just looking to swipe his phone or rifle through his belongs during post-coital haze. They usually come to his place of choice, armed with nothing but a coy smile, and proceed to try to seduce him in every variation Bond himself has done thrice over. He reciprocates accordingly, and, once he’s confirmed that they’re ideally situated, proceeds to give the poor bastard the fuck of his life.

He still feigns sleep and keeps both ears open just in case the honeypot’s snooping order changes to a killing one afterwards. It’s worth the fuss, because for once he can come when he wants to and not worry about his eyes closing for the briefest of moments during release. He tends to have no libido left after these missions, however, and the thought of a simple kiss can make his stomach turn. So he drowns the hollow feeling in alcohol and other substances, hopes the next job is one that involves only killing, and waits for the day to be dispatched again.


	2. Sweat

Bond sweats like a pig when he’s aroused. A hassle, because most of his wardrobe are dry-clean only. He ruins enough clothes with gunpowder and blood splatter, there’s really no need to add mundane shit like perspiration to the list. Luckily it takes him a while to get ‘into it’ while on the job. His marks aren’t going to know how long it takes to turn him on (or at all), so he usually has enough time to at least remove the most expensive of his clothing before proceeding. The quickies are a wash, but those tend to be conducted in unsavory places anyway, so in the end it all work out the same.

Q sweats his own fair share but nothing like Bond does. Not only does his smaller muscle mass mean less sweat in general, but he only gets flushed in very specific places. The back of his knees, the small of his back, the distinct inverted triangle on his chest from neck to breastbone. He takes a hot shower before every fuck not just for hygiene but also for warming up his extremities, which are always cold and clammy. It’s why he keeps baby powder at his desk and has a colorful collection of wool socks even for summer. He’s not going to let pesky things like biology interfere with his work, thank you very much. The same applies to his activities of leisure.

Bond likes to fuck Q on his back, all coiled up with slender legs tightening rhythmically over his shoulders. He likes to watch the spread of the flush as Q approaches climax, mouth open in a perfect O, the hollow of those knobby knees getting more and more slippery against Bond’s own sweat-soaked skin. Q’s not a screamer, doesn’t even make many sounds until he’s in the middle of coming. But when he does he will thrash and moan and make a general nuisance of himself that Bond has no choice but to hold him down with his full weight as he thrusts. They’ll fall in a heap afterwards, blissfully wrung out, the clean-up a mere afterthought as they drift to sleep with the sheets thrown every which way, most ending up on the floor in the process.

Q likes to fuck Bond in his lap, with his back pressed into the agent’s chest and their feet and calves in a complicated tangle beneath them. It makes moving a bit difficult, especially on Q’s end, but Bond’s calloused grip on his cock more than makes up the difference. He likes the feel of strong arms cage around him and the way Bond sighs when he’s close to release. Q will reach back then, tangle his fingers into the short cropped hair and breathe in the scent of sex as he sucks bruises into any skin he can reach. The pressure inside him will build steadily until he comes at the slightest touch. They wear condoms more often than not, but Q has always shamelessly reveled in the feel of the splatters on his chest, dripping down his thighs, his hole deliciously sore and wet from use.

In either case the bed’s always a lamentable mess afterwards. They switch whose place to sleep for this exact reason, and jokes about the amount of bed sheets they’ll need should cohabitation becomes a viable option. ‘One of these days,’ Bond likes to say, a sentiment which Q agrees with. Meanwhile they enjoy each other while they can, knowing the possibility of ‘never’ is not off the books. It’s not worth agonizing about, really, and they’ll deal with it as it comes.


	3. Play

Q finds out that Bond is a dom by complete accident. He’s at an obscure club, already paired up, when his dom for the night stops to chat up an acquaintance in passing. Q keeps his eyes on the floor until he hears the unmistakably familiar voice. He looks up in surprise, earning a sharp rebuke from his current dom as a result, but the confirmation is enough. Bond, to his credit, only gives him a cursory glance before proceeds to ignore him entirely. Q’s heart is still thumping like a frightened rabbit’s when they part ten minutes later, and remains so for the rest of the otherwise unremarkable night.

The next time they see each other is at a debriefing a week later. Everything remains absolutely professional, until Bond slips him a line about getting drinks afterwards, and Q, unlike with all the previous times, accepts. They don’t talk about anything of substance, opting for neutral topics like national security. These types of meetings continue until they finally fall into bed together one night, vanilla as they come, after a proper dinner date. Q casually works in an invitation to one of the more exhibitionist haunts before they part, to which Bond just smiles and says, ‘Alright.’

They purposely avoid coordinating and Q arrives 30 minutes after Bond. Just in time to see the agent on stage with two subs, tied together, armed with a glistening leather whip. Bond’s only attire is a pair of boots and jeans so tight Q can see the outline of his cock against the denim. He watches Bond methodically take the two mewling subs apart, and barely restrains himself from coming in his pants right on the crowded floor.

When the scene ends Q cuts straight to the back where Bond is carrying out aftercare. He waits until the room’s empty before stumbling in, pulling the agent into a fierce, desperate kiss. Bond responds by grabbing a fistful of Q’s hair and crushing him against the wall. It’s then that Q realizes that Bond is still rock hard, and all the theatre out front was purely for his benefit. He gets on his knees, unzips the cursed jeans with his teeth, and takes Bond into his mouth.

Their relationship is cemented after that. They still have dinner dates and nights together where all they want is a warm body to fall asleep with, and nothing has changed at all in the professional sphere. But on days when everything goes wrong at once Q will find himself on Bond’s doorstep, much later, with coils of rope in his bag instead of the usual electronics. Then their respective roles will slide neatly into place. Bond giving Q’s turbulent mind the calm he craved, and Q giving Bond the illusion that when a button is pressed the outcome is predictable and consistent, something the agent has never had in the most fundamental aspects of his life.

There is, however, one distinct caveat. Q never calls Bond _sir_ in any fashion. It’s a manifestation of his own arrogance along with the fact that it may interfere with their workplace dynamic – he technically outranks Bond, after all. It doesn’t really matter much, as Bond prefers to keep him gagged on most occasions. There’s just something in that obedient silence that gets the agent off faster than he can swing those whips. Q considers it a worthy tradeoff, because when he has his hands tightly bound, his head in Bond’s lap, and his knees aching against the agent’s hardwood floor, his mind is as blissfully devoid of thoughts as it ever can be.


End file.
